


Pillow Talks

by Hope_Austen



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Drunk Sherlock, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Johnlock Roulette, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating, Parentlock, Post-Season/Series 04, Post-TFP, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-01
Updated: 2018-05-03
Packaged: 2019-04-30 12:29:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14497008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hope_Austen/pseuds/Hope_Austen
Summary: (A 5+1 story)  - Five times John and Sherlock were laying on pillows talking to each other across the miles on their mobile phones; and the one time they were laying on pillows talking to each other and … didn’t need their phones. ;)





	1. Chapter 1

**_____________ 1 _____________**

 

_John, are you awake?_

The first text to John’s mobile chimed at 12:37 a.m. as John was just emerging on the other side of REM sleep. So the sound blended in with the rest of the odd dream he was having about toga parties and Queen Elizabeth. The next text alert sounded five minutes later.

_I’m bored._

John stirred a bit and slowly opened his eyes. _Had he heard a sound?_ John listened closely to the monitor setting on the table next to his bed, but all he heard was Rosie’s soft breaths floating through the device. Suddenly his phone pinged and John swiped it off the table and adjusted his eyes to read the text off the bright screen in the darkened room.

_Laying in a holding cell at the Yard in the middle of the night is decidedly not good. Counting the cracks in the ceiling. Slowly losing my mind. At least they gave me a pillow._

“What the fu—?” John murmured as he sat up abruptly in bed and punched the speed dial on his mobile. A steady voice answered on the other end.

“Oh, good. So, you were awake,” Sherlock stated.

“Well, I am now!” John spat. “Did you get arrested? Why the hell are you in a holding cell at the Yard?

There was a moment of silence before Sherlock sighed. “Yes, John. I got arrested. As to why I’m in a holding cell? It’s because I got _arrested_! This conversation is going around in circles,” he huffed.

John sat slouched on his bed, phone to his ear, eyes closed as his right hand massaged his crinkled forehead. His soft, greying hair stuck up here and there. _I’m getting too old for this._

Calmly, but pointedly, John asked, “What did you do to get yourself arrested?”

“Ah, now you’re asking the right questions,” Sherlock smirked.

John slowly laid back down onto his bed and nestled the side of his face into his pillow. He had a feeling his very bored best friend was about to launch into a lengthy explanation and John figured he may as well get comfortable because they were both going to be there awhile.

“It all started with a Swedish lorry driver with a parrot wearing an eye patch …,” Sherlock began to spin his tale. “… No, the bird wasn’t wearing the eye patch, John, the driver was, …”

Fifteen minutes later, John was giggling like a child and even Sherlock’s mood had elevated as his deep chuckle now pushed through John’s phone.

“Oh my God, I can’t believe you,” John laughed. “No, actually I can.”

The two of them took a few moments to settle down and John continued, “So who was the arresting officer? Does Greg know you’re in there?”

John could hear Sherlock shifting, trying to get comfortable on what he imagined was a very uncomfortable bench.

“Some officer named Sherman escorted me here. Detestable fellow, really. Of course, who can blame him. His wife is cheating on him and he just got passed over for a promotion. And I have no idea if Greg knows I’m here or not. I haven’t seen anyone snooping around trying to film me with their phone, claiming ‘it’ll be great fun at the annual Christmas party, mate’ so I’m assuming he doesn’t.”

John chuckled again, then a thought occurred to him.

“Jesus, Sherlock. Do you need me to come down and post bail?” he asked. “I’m sorry. I should have asked you that 20 minutes ago!”

Sherlock, who was starting to feel the effects of sleep deprivation, answered languidly, “Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t leave Rosie in the middle of the night.”

“Well, that’s true,” John started. “But I could call someone to come and watch—“  


“John,” Sherlock stopped him before he continued on the dead end path. “It may have been strongly suggested when I was brought to the cell that my reputation preceded me and I was going to be here until at least day break when the next shift of officers came on duty to deal with it, because things were, and I quote, ‘a little bat shit crazy around here at the moment.’”

This prompted round two of the John Watson giggles, “Oh, God, Sherlock!” 

And the detective couldn’t help but join in. “You know this is all _your_ fault, John.”

“My fault?!” John asked incredulously between spurts of laughter.

“Yes,” Sherlock teased. “If you’d been with me then you could have stopped me from breaking into that office building, scaring that 80-year old cleaning person and setting off the security alarm."

“Oh, please,” John chuckled. “If I’d have been with you, we _both_ would be laying in a holding cell right now!”

Sherlock barked a laugh. “True.” 

Then John heard Sherlock shift again and let out a breath before speaking. “Wouldn’t be a bad way to spend an evening though,” Sherlock added softly.

John was floored. Any remaining laughter was sucked out with the air from his lungs and he was left at a complete loss for words. _Why would Sherlock say something like that? Did he understand the subtext of such a statement? Is he hinting at—?_

Suddenly, John heard a loud, strong voice in the background on Sherlock’s end of the call. He remembered it well from the night of his stag-do, when he was hungover and sitting next to his equally hungover friend in a holding cell.

“Well, well, well, this is definitely going up on the big screen at the Christmas party this year!”

“For God’s sake, Lestrade, put your phone away!”

“And miss you laying flat out in a cell? Not a chance!”

John chuckled to himself as he listened to the two men’s banter.

“If I have to endure a cryptic phone call from your brother in the middle of the night,” Greg continued. “And haul my arse down here, then you deserve a little retribution and I deserve some blackmail video.”

John could practically hear Sherlock’s eye roll over the phone.

“John, it seems as if Detective Inspector Lestrade has nothing better to do with his time than to harass me without provocation,” Sherlock sneered. “I just may have to report this vile treatment to the proper authority.”

Greg’s voice filtered through the phone. “Will you just get the hell outta here, Sherlock? Before I change my mind and put you in solitary confinement!” 

John lay on his pillow barely stifling his laughter so he could listen to the bizarre, podcast-like drama that was playing out over his mobile.

“Fine!” Sherlock gritted out, and John could hear the sounds of the detective’s stomping footsteps accompanied by Greg’s “You’re welcome!” drifting off in the background.

John paused, then spoke softly, “Sherlock?”

“Oh. John, I—I forgot,” Sherlock stuttered.

John smiled. “You forgot I was on the phone, huh? Got caught up in your Mind Palace now that you’ve tasted freedom?” He joked.

Sherlock smirked. “Yes, I suppose I did.”

“Well, I’ll leave you to it then,” John said.

“Yes, well, good-night John,” Sherlock stated. “Your company was … was very… helpful … this evening.”

“Good-night, Sherlock,” John replied, then quickly added, “And for what it’s worth … I wish we _both_ had been in that holding cell, too.”

John hit the button to end the call before he could say anything else that might cause a blush, and burrowed his smiling face into his pillow once more.

 

**_____________ 2 _____________**

 

“John?”

A note of concern in Sherlock’s voice wove its way through that simple syllable as he quickly answered his mobile, seeing the name that had moments before flashed upon the screen.

“Sherlock, I’m so sorry,” John’s breathless voice could barely be heard on the other end of the call. Not because of a poor connection, but because the shrill screaming of Rosie Watson, who was currently in the throes of an epic toddler tantrum, was competing for air time.

“John, what’s wrong? What’s happened to Rosie?” Sherlock began to pace the sitting room of 221B as he clutched his mobile, pressing it tightly to his ear. The Watson duo had left Baker Street approximately 33.6 minutes ago and now John was calling him instead of texting. Sherlock’s hackles were up. Something was seriously wrong.

“Rosie’s fine,” assured John in the next instant. “Well, for the most part. You know, actually, it’s nothing. Well, not … nothing. I mean it’s … it’s stupid really … but, God, I don’t know what to do. She won’t stop screaming and I didn’t mean to bother you—”

“John,” Sherlock interrupted his friend. Then, with an unearthly calm that so many times takes over during a crisis, the detective stated, “Breathe … then talk.”

There was a pause on the other end as John took a breath. 

“I can’t find Mr. Bee.” 

John’s voice was filled with desperation, as if he was on the verge of tears.

Mr. Bee was a plush, stuffed bumble bee that Rosie’s doting Godfather had given to her. It was stained and worn, and John had a few times tried to suture the stray holes that had cropped up, but even then Rosie was rarely without it. And it was absolutely essential for any type of bedtime or nap time routine.

“I was wondering if we had left it at the flat,” John continued as Rosie’s wails increased in volume.

Sherlock, who had halted his pacing, huffed a relieved laugh. Partly because he realized that the imminent danger level had dropped significantly and partly because John made reference to “ _the_ flat” instead of “ _your_ flat.” _Baby steps_ , thought Sherlock.

“If you could just maybe look around the sitting room, maybe under my chair,” John pleaded.

Sherlock caught John’s ‘ _my_ chair’ slip and gave himself a silent internal fist pump.

John continued, “If it’s there, I can hop in a cab and—”

“John,” Sherlock interrupted again. “I want you to start walking toward your front door.”

“What? Why?!” A hint of incredulousness creeped into John’s tone, but Sherlock could hear the shuffle of the other man’s footsteps.

“Because in about three seconds, there’s going to be a knock at your door,” Sherlock stated. He could hear John’s gentle but desperate attempts at soothing Rosie and the distinct noise of wrapping as if someone was knocking on a door.

Sherlock found himself laying down on the sofa, one ear comfortably nestled on the Union Jack pillow, with his phone cradled against the other ear, listening to the soothing sounds of his friend’s voice.

Then Sherlock heard the click of a door opening and John greeting someone, followed by a profusion of thanks. But most importantly, Sherlock noted that Miss Rosie Watson’s cries had diminished to mere whimpers. 

John’s voice, which had taken on a hushed tone, was filtering through the phone, reassuring his daughter that everything was going to be okay now. 

Suddenly, John’s tone became stronger and Sherlock realized his friend was speaking to him.

“You are amazing, you know that?” John said with a hint of a smile.

“So you’ve told me,” Sherlock answered in a sultry way that he could only blame on his post-case adrenaline crash and comfortable, reclined position. “On a number of occasions.”

Sherlock could tell that the doctor was attempting to sit down, most likely still holding Rosie and Mr. Bee while trying to juggle his mobile.

“I’m assuming that the person at my door just now, holding Mr. Bee, was part of your homeless network?” John asked.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied. “Andrea is a loyal and kind-hearted young woman. Very trustworthy, too.”

John’s smirk was evident.

“I’ve no doubt,” he replied. “Thank you, Sherlock. I’m not sure what I’d—we’d do without you.”

Sherlock, who had already started to feel cozy, was overtaken by a burst of warmth that started in the area of his chest and radiated down to his toes. He smiled. “You’re welcome, John.”

There were a few moments of silence, both men listening across the miles to each other’s breaths.

“Well, um, I should probably …” John began.

“Is—is she asleep?” Sherlock attempted to stall. Much to his surprise, he was quite liking the intimate atmosphere at the moment.

“Yeah,” John answered. “And she’s clutching Mr. Bee like a lifeline,” he chuckled. Then a more reflective tone came over him. “You know, she’s such a dichotomy. She can get herself all worked up sometimes and be difficult and unruly. And yet, there are other times when she can be so quiet and peaceful and so … loving.” John’s voice trailed off as if he was contemplating what he’d just spoken.

“Sounds like the mark of a highly intelligent and passionate individual,” Sherlock quietly mused.

John’s low hum carried over the airwaves and he spoke almost distractedly. “Yes, I think you’re right. And God help those of us who love all of it … strops and smiles.”

Sherlock then heard a short inhalation of breath on the other end of the call, barely audible except to those as keenly observant as he was. And suddenly, his brain, which had been wafting in and out of comfort, was now crunching data like a lumbering 1980’s word processor. _Were they still talking about Rosie? Was John making some sort of parallel?_

“So, uh-um,” John’s throat-clearing interrupted Sherlock’s mental flurry. “I’m assuming you were able to piece together that last bit of evidence on the Carrigan case after we left tonight, yeah?”

And that was all it took for Sherlock to halt the barrage of emotion that had threatened to flood his mind. Information. Data. That was better. Safer. That was known territory.

The two men spent the better part of the next hour discussing the case wrap-up. Sherlock lounging on the sofa in 221B, his mobile now wedged between his ear and the pillow, enjoying John’s intermittent praise, and John slumped in an oversized chair across town, with his head reclined back on a small travel pillow, holding an exhausted, slumbering Rosie in one arm and his mobile in the other. 

Finally, the clock struck twelve and the detective and his blogger bid each other sleepy farewells, both men settling in for a night of contented dreaming.

  

_____________ **3**  _____________

  

“JAWWWNNN!”

John shook his head and plopped back down on his pillow when he heard the voice—the very inebriated voice—on the other end of his mobile phone. He had almost been expecting this late-night, or rather, early morning call.

“Why aren’t you here, John? I need you. Are you mad at me?” Sherlock’s whining was becoming louder and more annoying with every passing second.

“I’m not there, you git, because Rosie’s sick. Remember?” John explained, knowing it really wouldn’t matter.

“I think _I’m_ about to be sick, John,” Sherlock murmured. “Will you take care of me, too?”

John huffed a laugh. “No, you mad man. You got yourself into this and you can pay the consequences. I told you to be careful.”

The doctor had fully intended on attending Greg Lestrade’s stag-do, but Rosie woke up with a fever that morning. So, John had to make his apologies to stay home and care for a very miserable and cranky little girl, essentially leaving Sherlock to fend for himself among a very experienced drinking crowd of Yarders.

“But it wasn’t my fault,” Sherlock protested. “Lestrade promised he would make sure I wouldn’t drink too much.”

“Oh, you mean the same Lestrade who drunk texted me two hours ago to tell me that I was missing an epic karaoke battle between you and Sally Donovan?” John smirked and nestled into his pillow, settling in for the drunken verbal assault that he knew was coming. _Perhaps this tiresome night can be salvaged after all,_ he thought.

“Okay, first of all,” Sherlock began with a hiccup, “I can’t believe Lestrade texted you. Second, it wasn’t karaoke. Someone was playing a piano in the corner of the pub and I started singing. You know I have a brilliant singing voice, John. I took lessons when I was a boy. Could have studied music if I hadn’t been caught up with the drugs. And anyway … what was I saying? Oh, yes, third, then Donovan started caterwauling. I mean she really shouldn’t be allowed within 10 square kilometers of a microphone, John. Second … or was it third? …”

“Fourth,” John helpfully provided.

“Oh, yes, thank you,” Sherlock said. “I can always count on you to keep me right, John Watson! Fourth, I … I … I can’t remember what fourth was, but I’m still mad because you’re not here!”

John should have gotten an award for his ability to stifle outright laughter at that point, but even though he was finding Sherlock’s rant amusing, he still felt a little guilty that he hadn’t been there to keep Sherlock out of trouble.

“Sherlock,” John started. “Where are you now?”

He could hear Sherlock shuffling.

“I’m laying in my bed,” the detective pouted, but then his tone turned to curious and barreled right on through to indignation. “I’m not really sure how I got here. … Lestrade must have brought me home. He didn’t even make me tea, John. If you were here _you_ would have made me tea. You would just know, John. I need tea!”

John smiled and his whole body felt a little warmer because of the detective’s comment, even though it was delivered in such an irate tone.

“Oh, bloody hell, my shoes are still on!” Sherlock complained. “Can’t sleep with my shoes on.”

John could hear the man grunting and groaning as he attempted to remove his shoes. 

“You would have taken my shoes and socks off for me, John. And you would have made sure I was covered with the duvet. And that there would be paraceet— parakeet— no, para— oh, hell. _Pills_ , John! You would have put _pills_ on the table for me because I think I’m not going to feel well in the morning.”

John could tell that his friend had settled a bit and must be laying back down on his bed. John imagined Sherlock curled up like a child, and he regretted not being able to see his friend.

“Well, I’m sorry I couldn’t be there,” John replied. “I really am. But you know Rosie needed me and she’s a little more helpless than you are. Not by much, but still, she needs me.”

“I know,” Sherlock replied, his speech taking on a softer, sleepier tone. “You’re a good father, John. You take care of Rosie. You make sure she’s healthy and safe. She wouldn’t be safe here. That’s why you still live in the suburbs.”

John’s brow furrowed. “Hold on, what do you mean? I think she would be very safe at Baker Street.”

A moment of silence passed.

“No, not here. Not with all the bad people out there. Wouldn’t be safe here,” Sherlock murmured. “Keep Rosie safe, John. I don’t want anything to happen to her. I love her so much. I love … ”

_Jesus, was Sherlock drunk-crying now?_ John needed to shut this down immediately.

“Sherlock,” John answered calmly. “Listen to me, okay? Rosie is safe. You’re safe. There’s no need for you to be upset. We don’t live at Baker Street because, well … we’d probably be in your way.”

“You wouldn’t be in my way,” Sherlock sniffled sleepily.

“Well, okay,” John replied. “I tell you what, we can talk about this another time. I should probably let you get some sleep.”

“No! John, please don’t hang up!” Sherlock sounded a bit panicked.

“But, Sherlock—”

“Please. … Please? I don’t—I don’t want to be alone right now.” 

John’s heart stuttered at his friend’s vulnerability. “Okay, I’ll stay on the phone. Just close your eyes and breathe.” 

He could hear Sherlock’s deep breaths. 

“You know what?” John continued. “How about if I tell you a story. Maybe that will help relax you. Would you like that?” He felt like he was talking to a toddler. _Hmm, needs must._

“Yes,” Sherlock sighed.

“Well, once upon a time—”

“No.”

“No?”

“No stories that start with ‘once upon a time.’”

“Um, okay. Then what type of story do you want to hear?”

“Crime stories. Preferably ones with a good murder.”

“But many fairy tales actually do have a murder in them. Remember Sleeping Beauty?”

“Deleted.”

“Of course. … Well then, how about this one. Once upon a time there was a brilliant consulting detective—“

“John!”

“Hey, bear with me!” John implored. He could hear Sherlock grumbling, but continued. “And one day as the consulting detective was working at a lab at Barts, his friend, Mike Stamford, walked in with a very handsome and intelligent army doctor.”

John smiled to himself as he could hear Sherlock’s derisive snort on the other end of the phone.

“The consulting detective took one look at the army doctor and made many deductions. And the army doctor was amazed. He thought the consulting detective was surely someone very special.—”

“John?”

“Yes?”

“Your storytelling abilities are on par with your blogging abilities.”

“Shut up, Sherlock.”

John could hear a slight giggle over the phone, and smiled and shook his head as he continued telling his tale.

“And so he agreed to live with the detective. And that very first night, a very bad cabbie tried to kill the detective, but the army doctor wouldn’t let him. The doctor knew he needed to protect the detective. And—”  


“John,” Sherlock practically whispered as sleep was finally overtaking him.

“What’s that?” John replied softly.

“I miss you.” 

Sherlock’s confession was barely a breath, but John heard it nonetheless across the miles. 

John’s breath hitched and his heart rate increased. He swallowed, knowing there was only one thing left to say. And even if Sherlock had drifted off to sleep and would never hear it, John needed to make a whispered confession of his own.

“I miss you, too.”


	2. Chapter 2

**_____________ 4 _____________**

 

“Daddy!”

Rosie squealed as the mobile phone was held up to her ear.

John had been asked to attend a one-day medical seminar in Birmingham, leaving Sherlock, as Rosie’s Godfather and emergency contact, the logical choice for the young girl’s care in the doctor’s brief absence. 

The seminar began quite early the following day so John had dropped off Rosie at noon at Baker Street, then took a train to Birmingham and checked in to a local hotel for the night. He was scheduled to return to London the next day after the seminar ended in the afternoon. It was decided that it would be better for everyone within a 50-kilometer radius of London if Rosie spent the night in the city rather than Sherlock spending the night in the suburbs.

“Hello, Love. Are you being a good girl?” John’s muffled voice carried through the phone as Rosie, who was tucked into John’s former bed in the upstairs bedroom at 221B, grabbed the device from Sherlock, but didn’t quite have the hang of holding a phone with her little hands yet.

So, grasping the phone with two hands and leaning forward to speak into it, she answered John’s question in the affirmative, then added delightedly, “And Papa and me went to the park, and we drew pictures, but no crime scenes though, and Papa made me popcorn! And Papa said that you and I could live here forever if we wanted to. Is that okay, Daddy? Can we live with Papa?”

Sherlock held his breath as he could feel John’s oppressive silence more than two hundred kilometers away. Then the detective heard John’s throat-clearing “tell” and the doctor’s voice broke the quietness. “Sounds like you and _Papa_ had a great day,” John said. “We’ll talk about everything when I get home tomorrow, okay?”

“Okay,” Rosie replied happily.

“I love you, Rosebud,” John softly stated. “You have sweet dreams.”

“Love you!” Rosie shouted, then handed the phone back to Sherlock and burrowed into the duvet. Sherlock kissed her forehead and whispered, “Love you” and was pleased when Rosie answered in kind. It continued to surprise him just how much love the Watsons had to share.

As he stepped from the upstairs bedroom and clicked the door shut, he put the phone to his ear. “John,” he stated hesitantly as he cracked his neck and let out a little moan after a day of entertaining a four-year old. He could almost feel the stress melting off his body.

John huffed a laugh, “Had you running today, did she?”

Sherlock smirked, “Quite.”

“Serves you right,” John continued fondly. “Now you know how I’ve felt all these years chasing _you_ around London.”

Sherlock wearily smiled at that; the memories of their rooftop and alleyway chases warming his heart. They didn’t do that anymore … he and John … after everything. 

What they did do now, however, was communicate more. Sherlock knew that Rosie’s conversation was so layered with unspoken words that John wasn’t going to mercifully let it go as Sherlock would have hoped. So he lay down on his bed, closed his eyes and wedged the phone between his cheek and a pillow, waiting for the shoe to drop.

“Sherlock, about what Rosie said,” John started. 

“John, you must know I didn’t encourage her to call me that,” Sherlock defended and rapidly ploughed on. “A woman at Speedy’s made a reference to me being Rosie’s Papa and it just stuck with her. I tried to correct Rosie but she’s got a bit of a stubborn streak in her. A bit like her father I think, but—”

“Sherlock,” John halted the words that were tumbling from Sherlock’s mouth. “It’s fine. I don’t mind if she calls you Papa. You’re the only other parental figure besides me she’s ever known. You love her and care for her. I trust you with her life.”

Sherlock swallowed hard.

“It’s only right that she should call you Papa,” John continued. “I—I mean unless you would prefer her not to call you that. Which is totally fine, by the way. I can talk to her.” Now John was the one rambling. “I can set some boundaries. You—”

“No!” Sherlock cut in. “I—I liked when she called me Papa today. … It made me feel … important.”

Sherlock could hear John shuffling around trying to get comfortable in his two-star-at-best hotel double bed.

“You _are_ important,” John replied quietly. “To _both_ of us. And I’m grateful that you’re a part of our lives.”

Wave after wave of emotion pummeled Sherlock, nearly crashing his mind against some make-believe shore. He was happy. So happy. But he also was tired. So tired of navigating these unsteady waters, wondering if he could ever have something more than friendship with John; dreaming about living with John and Rosie as a family; and fantasizing about just being with John.

“Actually, I was curious about the other part of the conversation,” John asked nervously. “Where did Rosie get the, uh, idea that she and I could … live … with you?”

Sherlock had been standing by the flag pole in his Mind Palace getting ready to haul up the white flag, not being able to process any more Watson-talk for the day, when John added. “I mean, is that something she … invented or did—did you … say … something?”

It wasn’t the words that struck Sherlock so much as the tone. _John is tentative. If John was completely opposed to the idea, he would have laughed it off. But, no, he’s fumbling with his words. He wants to know where I stand on this issue. He’s genuinely considering it!_

Sherlock brought the proverbial white flag back down the pole, chucked it in a bin and charged ahead.

“I did discuss it with her,” he calmly explained, although his nervous system was running full speed ahead. “She said she didn’t like living far away from Mrs. Hudson and me, and Speedy’s and the park, of course. You know, she does have a tendency to ramble.”

“Sounds like the mark of an intelligent and passionate person,” John murmured fondly.

It took Sherlock only a moment to remember where he’d heard those words before, then he laughed softly. “Indeed,” he replied, then continued amidst a partially-stifled yawn. “Anyway, I told her that if she lived here then she could see Mrs. Hudson and me every day. And we could go to Speedy’s for lunch and walk to the park.”

There was a moment of silence.

“I didn’t lie to her, John,” Sherlock said. “I would never do that. I’m sorry if I put a thought in her head that you might not agree with but I want to always tell her the truth.”

There was another moment of silence, then John spoke. “Actually … I was thinking about how brilliant that all sounds.”

Sherlock’s mind was like a bicycle shifting through five gears at once.

“Wha—Rea—really?” he managed.

“Mhmm,” John answered. His voice reminded Sherlock of honey, slowly dripping from a bottle.

“John,” Sherlock’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Would you and, um, Rosie, want to … live here … with … me?”

The silence over the phone was deafening. The sound of John’s breathing was competing with the sound of Sherlock’s own heart thumping in his chest.

John, in a low voice, was the first to break the silence. “Obviously,” he stated, with a smirk.

Sherlock was caught by surprise and huffed a laugh. John answered with a giggle. 

Then it was just the two of them, lying in their beds, giggling and talking on their phones like two teenagers planning a holiday without their parents. For another hour-and-a-half, they giddily discussed furniture arrangements and some “house rules” and who was going to be the one to tell Mrs. Hudson and endure her delighted fussing.

It was John who finally decided that he should probably end the call so he could at least get a couple hours of sleep before he had to wake up and be ready for the first session of the seminar. 

“Thank you, again, Sherlock, for opening Baker Street to us,” John said with sincerity. “And you’re really sure this is okay?”

“John, don’t be an idiot,” the detective replied fondly. “What time did you say your train would be arriving?”

“Six o’clock tonight,” John reminded. “But I’ll just grab a cab from the station. No need to pick me up.”

“Alright. Well, we’ll see you when you get home then,” Sherlock said.

“Home,” John repeated softly with a smile.

 

**_____________ 5 _____________**

 

“Sherlock?!”

John had practically dropped his mobile in a frantic attempt to grab it off the coffee table. “Where are you? Why haven’t you returned my texts? My calls?!”

The doctor was trying his best to toe the line between concern and anger, but anger was quickly winning the battle. 

Mycroft had sent Sherlock to Paris, on what was supposed to be a simple forgery case involving a French diplomat. Sherlock was loathe to go because first of all, John couldn’t accompany him. Secondly, Rosie’s first day of school had been coming up and John and he had planned to take her out to breakfast and walk with her to school that day. And finally, well, he hated doing favors for his brother. But in the end, “Queen-and-Country” John had encouraged him to go. _“You’ll probably solve it in the first hour and be back in time for tea.”_ John had chuckled. Unfortunately, things didn’t go as planned.

“Sherlock, I thought we had a deal,” he said. “You would check in; keep me informed of what was going on.”

“John, I’m sorry,” Sherlock gritted out.

Suddenly John heard another voice on the other end of the call. It sounded like a woman, cheerily speaking to Sherlock. All the doctor could make out was _blessure_ and _des médicaments_ before Sherlock covered part of the phone and the voices sounded muffled. But it was enough information for John to realize where his friend was. 

After a few moments, Sherlock returned to the call, “John, I need to tell you—”

“Are you in hospital?!” John asked incredulously. “What happened? Is it serious?” John’s voice rose with every syllable.

The detective, who was trying to hold the pain at bay, took a few steadying breaths then spoke, “Yes, I’m in hospital, but I’m alright.”

“Truth, Sherlock,” Captain Watson warned.

“No, really, John,” Sherlock continued. “I’m okay. The truth is, I’m in pain, but it’s nothing I can’t handle. I didn’t want to be under the influence of anything when I talked to you. I may ask for some relief eventually, but for now, I just want to hear your voice.”

“God, Sherlock,” John gasped. “What happened?”

The detective explained how the diplomat had been forging signatures of high-ranking officials onto documents, checks and other items. However, as Sherlock quickly found out, a web of lies is rarely ever spun by only one person. And the detective, with the help of French authorities, soon had uncovered an underground crime syndicate that dealt with identity theft, among other things. This lead to a stakeout, a subsequent chase and Sherlock confronting one of the criminals on a fire escape.

“And you know what happens to a trapped animal, John,” Sherlock stated.

“They fight back,” John replied with a clenched jaw.

“Unfortunately,” Sherlock affirmed.

“Did that animal have a weapon?” John asked. His breaths getting thicker.

“No,” Sherlock answered. “But he had a quick jab that knocked me off guard. Then he proceeded to use his fists to deter me before he threw me over the side of the railing. I fell about5 meters.”

“Jesus!” John gasped. 

“The rubbish skip broke my fall though,” Sherlock finished.

“You could have been killed!” John cried.

“But I wasn’t,” Sherlock quickly answered. “I’m fine.”

John sat down on the sofa, both elbows on his knees, holding his phone in one hand, while holding his face in the palm of his other.  
  
“I should have been there,” he murmured. “I should have been there to protect you. Oh Christ, I even encouraged you to go.”

“John. Stop.” Sherlock stated in a surprisingly steady, commanding tone. “We talked about this before, remember? Rosie comes first. And yes, you did advise me to go, but I’m an adult. I’m capable of making my own decisions. And it was my decision to go. Unfortunately, it’s a decision that I’ll regret for the rest of my life.”

John slumped to lay lengthwise on the sofa. His head rested on a pillow, while he stared at the ceiling. His free arm draped over his forehead.

“I know logically that I needed to be here,” John said. “But emotionally—”

“There’s no room for emotion,” Sherlock interrupted. “It was a case.”

“A case that almost got you killed,” John charged.

“But I’m not,” Sherlock defended. 

It didn’t matter though. John’s mind was already headed down the road of “what if’s.”

“What if you had Sherlock?” John asked wearily. “What if something had happened and I didn’t get the chance to see you, to … to tell you—” 

At this, John came back to himself and cut off his own speech.

“Tell me what, John?” Sherlock quietly pleaded.

John knew it was now or never. It was the moment he had feared and anticipated all at once. He heard the vulnerability in Sherlock’s voice and knew that he needed to make himself vulnerable, too, if they were to have any chance for growth in their relationship. He sucked in a breath and sighed.

“What if I hadn’t had the chance to tell you that I love you?” he stated with an incredible calmness.

He heard a definitive breath hitch on the other end of the call, indicating that Sherlock had been taken aback. That, along with the fact that the earth continued its revolution around the sun, gave John the courage to repeat the sentiment.

“I love you, Sherlock,” he repeated softly. “And I’m sorry that it took you getting injured, lying in a hospital bed for me to have the guts to say it. But there it is. … The thought of losing you is unbearable. And I don’t want you to go another day without knowing how much you mean to me.”

There were a few moments of silence, John wondering if it meant his friend was appalled, shocked or asleep. Then the younger man’s trembling voice broke the stillness.

“John … I was told when they brought me in that I may be slightly concussed. So, please tell me if this is, in fact, real. Tell me that I’m not imagining your words.”

John let out a relieved laugh and found himself suddenly choked up. “My love for you is very real, Sherlock. It’s not a dream.”

Sherlock quietly replied. “But it is, John. … It _is_ a dream for me.”

John couldn’t help the lump that formed in his throat. And if the silence on the other end of the call was any indication, he knew Sherlock was feeling the same way.

After a few moments, the detective exclaimed. “Oh! I love you, too!” Then in the same breath he murmured, “In case you were … wondering.”

John laughed, “I had a pretty good idea that you did, but thanks for the confirmation.”

This evoked a small chuckle from the detective.

“So when do you think you’ll be up to traveling?” John asked with reservation. Although he wanted Sherlock to receive the very best care and follow the French doctor’s orders, he was already mentally planning a ‘Welcome Home’ reunion. A parade of options, all of them including various stages of nakedness, danced through his mind.

“You will let me take my coat off before you pounce on me, won’t you, John?” Sherlock answered with a smirk.

“Wha—what?” John stuttered, then just gave up and started to laugh. “Yes, I’ll let you at least walk in the door before I drag you down the hallway and have my way with you.”

“Mmmmm,” Sherlock groaned softly, prompting all of the saliva in John’s mouth to evaporate. And suddenly, John became very aware that his trousers were feeling a bit snug in the groin area as he listened to Sherlock’s breath over the phone becoming a bit labored.

“John,” Sherlock spoke brokenly. “Are you lying down?”

“Yes.”

“Are you as aroused as I am?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want to …?”

“Oh, God, yes.”

 

**_____________ +1 _____________**

 

“It was one hell of a wedding; I’ll give ‘em that.”

John declared as he walked, freshly showered, into the bedroom—the bedroom that Sherlock used to call his own, but now shared with John.

It had been three months since the two men had confessed their love to one another via mobile phones across the Channel. As soon as Sherlock had been discharged from hospital, he quickly returned to London, and the two of them had gone straight to his bedroom for a very private and very intimate reunion. 

“Cliche,” Sherlock distractedly answered. He was lying in bed, propped against a pillow, fingers flying over his mobile phone as if he was in some sort of texting marathon.

“Still, Elizabeth looked beautiful and Mycroft actually seemed … happy,” John continued as he settled onto the mattress, facing toward the detective, one hand placed between his cheek and pillow. The other hand lay softly on the bed between the two men.

“Yes, hmm, happy,” Sherlock repeated, still ignoring John and tapping away on his phone.

“I am surprised though that there were so many people invited,” John said. “Mycroft does love his privacy.”

“Two high-profile, governmental figures, John. They were obliged to make a spectacle,” Sherlock replied dryly, now scrolling through his phone.

John sighed, “Sherlock, will you please put the phone away?”

Sherlock looked at his partner, searching his face for a moment, then tapped a few keys and placed the phone on the bedside table. He then turned off the lamp, fluffed his pillow and lay down to face John, practically mirroring his blogger’s pose. Moonlight filtered through the window bathing them in blue, as Sherlock slowly reached out and covered John’s free hand with his own. A dance of light and shadow played upon their faces.

“What’s wrong?” the detective asked tentatively as he stroked John’s knuckles with his thumb.

The doctor, who had long given up trying to hide anything, especially his emotions, from Sherlock, sighed again.

“Nothing’s _wrong_ per se,” he stated thoughtfully. “It’s just, I don’t know, I’m probably getting swept up in the emotion of the day.”

Sherlock furrowed his brow.

John looked at their two joined hands. “Six months ago, I sat at Greg and Molly’s wedding. Today, I watched your brother, of all people, and his wife join their lives together. … All I could think of was how much I wanted to do that with you.”

John looked up into his partner’s pale eyes, expecting to see a sense of fear, but instead was surprised and captivated to see an extreme intensity in Sherlock’s gaze. It allowed John to gain the courage to forge ahead.

“Sherlock, we’ve been through so much and the thought of being apart from you ever again gives me physical pain.”

With that, Sherlock squeezed John’s hand in reassurance. The doctor smiled even though his eyes appeared glassy. Sherlock resumed caressing his friend’s hand.

“I love you,” John continued. “I love you with my entire being and I want everyone to know. … I want _you_ to know. … I want Rosie to know that her parents are committed to one another. And, I feel like some sort of formal event or ceremony would help do that.”

The two men lay in silence for a few moments, staring into each other’s eyes, Sherlock continuing to softly rub John’s hand.

“I’m sorry,” John finally spoke, looking away and shaking his head. “I shouldn’t … we don’t need a public declaration. As I said, I just got caught up in the emotions of the day. You and I have never had a normal relationship and—“

“John,” Sherlock interrupted. “You are my best friend and partner. I trust you with my life, but more importantly, I trust you with my heart. You are the best man I have ever known. … I love you more now than I thought was humanly possible and I will keep loving you until the last breath leaves my body. I already consider us bound to each other, but if it’s important to you that we make some sort of public confession, then I wouldn’t be opposed.”

John gently removed his hand from Sherlock’s and reached up to cup his best friend’s face. As a solitary tear drifted down John’s cheek, he whispered, “I’m so in love with you, Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock leaned forward and pressed his lips to John’s, and the two lovers shifted knowingly and silently toward each other as hands stroked, mouths gasped, breaths collided and two bodies slowly ebbed and flowed in time with one another, teasing, pumping, and finally releasing amidst cries of bliss. 

Afterward, as the sweat cooled among tangled limbs, the two men shared a pillow. John’s face brushed against Sherlock’s neck, as the detective ran his long, musician’s fingers through the doctor’s soft, damp hair. While John’s left arm was folded between the two of them, his right arm was wrapped around Sherlock’s lower back and his hand stroked the muscles there in time with the clock ticking on the bedside table.

“So,” Sherlock began quietly. “I was looking up what time the register office opens in the morning, because we’ll need to give notice. Then I believe we need to wait—”

“Hold on, what?” John pulled away, but not far, and looked with confusion across the pillow at Sherlock. “When did this happen? We only just discussed it and you wouldn’t have had time to …”

Suddenly, a look of understanding crossed John’s features. “That’s what you were doing when I walked in, wasn’t it? You were on the internet,” the doctor spoke in amazement.

Sherlock squared his jaw, having been found out. “I may have been doing a little research to pass the time, yes.”

The expression on John’s face was the same one Sherlock, and only Sherlock, had seen many times before. It was the expression he lived for—amazement and fondness, mixed with joy and desire.

“You weren’t the only one moved by sentiment today,” Sherlock shyly grinned while slowly tracing the side of John’s face with his index finger.

John blinked slowly, taking in the overwhelming sensation of Sherlock’s touch.

“You are everything, John,” Sherlock whispered. “Everything to me.”

John slowly took Sherlock’s hand and placed it over his heart. “My _heart_ is yours, Sherlock. … _I_ am yours. … Forever.”

Sherlock let out a small breath, “Forever.”

John smiled, a soft, peaceful smile and Sherlock found himself doing the same, both of their faces nestled on top of the cool, cotton pillow cover. The only sounds in the room were steady breaths and beating hearts as these two extraordinary men gazed at each other in love and friendship, both knowing that in the quietness of the moment, no more words were needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this brought a smile to your face today. :) Thank you for reading!


End file.
